Chapter Thirty-Six
By the time Barnsley Hall came into sight, Hugh was revising his decision to allow Amelia to accompany him.
She had arisen far perkier than he, and now she practically bounced in excitement at the prospect of meeting Christiana’s crotchety father for the first time, no doubt with grand dreams of putting the man back in his place.
He wished he had sent her back home with an army of servants.
“Can I meet Lord Barnsley?” she asked for the umpteenth time as they approached the estate. Bathed in the mid-afternoon sun, the golden sandstone held a certain charm, even if from a distance, Hugh could see the missing tiles and chipped facade.
All things he would rectify, even if it killed him.
“No,” he said shortly.
Amelia pouted. “Why?”
“Because that honor is not one reserved for you. Besides, he might not be alive.” Although there were no black flags flying, black sheets hanging from the windows, or any other demonstration of mourning.
Then again, who was there to mourn but Christiana?
When they finally arrived, he handed Amelia down from the carriage and after a moment, the front door opened to reveal a man in his fifties, stocky and grizzled but with a kindly face. He glanced from Hugh’s carriage, bearing his crest, to the mask across his face.
“Well, now,” he said slowly. “I reckon you must be the Duke of Somerset.”
“Well met.” Now that they were here, all Hugh could think about was seeing Christiana and checking if she was all right.
Her face swam across his mind—the paleness of her cheeks when they had left.
The disappointment in her eyes the final morning they’d spent together, where he had left before she could so much as speak to him.
“This is my sister, Lady Amelia Westfield. Is Her Grace here?”
The man bowed his head. “I’m afraid not, Your Grace. She left yesterday evening, though I can’t say to where.”
“She left?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Hugh’s stomach dropped to his shoes. The right side of his body ached, and he wanted to recline on his left side, or sink into a cool bath. Instead, Christiana was missing.
Missing.
He gathered his thoughts. “Are you Mr. Stephens?”
“At your service, Your Grace.”
“What of Lord Barnsley?”
Mr. Stephens’s face hardened. “He’s still alive, the old goat, but not for much longer, God willing.”
“Did he say something to Her Grace yesterday?”
“Aye, I imagine so. She went to see him, then left without so much as a goodbye. The old man said he wouldn’t betray what had occurred between a father and his daughter.” The man’s face flushed a little. “And he said some things I won’t repeat here, sir, not in front of the lady.”
“I have quite the stomach, sir,” Amelia said blandly. “I believe I am more than equal to it.”
“Aye, so you might be,” Mr. Stephens agreed. “And yet I have no intention of telling you—or anyone else, mind—what that codger said.”
Hugh inhaled slowly. “Show my sister to an appropriate place—a parlor or library, perhaps—and offer her whatever refreshments might be found in this crumbling pile. I will see Lord Barnsley.”
“Hugh, let me—”
“No.” The word was harsh, but he would not allow her to commune with a degenerate such as Lord Barnsley. “Do as Mr. Stephens says, and if you attempt to disobey me, you will feel the consequences.”
For a moment, he thought she might argue the case, but she merely sighed. “Give him a piece of your mind, Hugh.”
“Believe me,” he said grimly. “I will.”
Lord Barnsley’s bedchambers were a miserably dark affair. The light strained through thick curtains, and the stench of sickness was heavy in the air. Hugh was not overly familiar with illness, but some primal part of his body recognized the slow decay of life.
He didn’t care.
Striding to the windows, he flung the curtains wide, letting the September sun burst in. The man in the bed let out a strangled cry.
Good.
Hugh turned, laying eyes on his father-in-law for the first time.
His first thought was that this spineless excuse for a man could not have sired Christiana.
Where she held strength behind her intelligent eyes and proud nose, Lord Barnsley held nothing but weakness and greed.
His eyes were watery and beady, filled with impotent outrage, and Hugh could practically see the calculations behind his expression.
Not a fool, then—not entirely. And certainly not able to blame his recent outburst on no longer knowing his mind.
“The Duke of Somerset, eh?” Lord Barnsley smiled, displaying yellowing teeth. Some were missing. “The very man I wanted to see.”
“I rather doubt that.” With a vicious gesture, Hugh ripped his mask away, revealing his true face to the invalid viscount. The man paled as Hugh strode forward, reaching the bed and peering over. “Tell me, what did you say to my wife?”
“Your wife? Ah, you mean my daughter?” A slow, malevolent smile crossed his face. “Why should I tell you?”
“Because,” Hugh said in a deceptively even voice, “I will stop at nothing to find out, and if need be, I will ruin you and your estate better than you ever could.” So saying, he took a vase of dead flowers sitting on the bedside table and hurled it at the wall.
The vase shattered with a satisfying crash.
No one came running.
“You have no one left to defend you. No one left to mourn you. The one person in the world who might have felt something for you, you chased away. You will die alone and in pain, and I hope you live just long enough to regret it.” Hugh ripped the bedsheets away, seeing in disgust that at some point in the night, Lord Barnsley had soiled himself.
Either he was incapable of changing, there was no one prepared to do it for him—a likely event—or he didn’t care enough to do so.
Hugh didn’t care. But he did enjoy the panic that lit Lord Barnsley’s eyes.
“They call me ‘the Beast of Somerset,’” Hugh said, taking a lamp and hurling it at another wall.
What did it matter? He would shortly own this place.
“No doubt you think you know what that means. Well, I’m here to tell you how very wrong you are.
I have no intention of letting you hurt my wife without consequences.
” He turned back to Lord Barnsley, letting a sneer twist his lips, knowing he looked like a monster.
For the first time, he reveled in it.
Christiana preferred his face without the mask. What did he care for the opinion of others?
“Did you think I would despise my wife?” he asked, planting his hands on the bare mattress and leaning down.
“Did you think I would hate her as much as you no doubt hated your own wife? By God, you are pathetic. She is better than you will ever be, and I will spend the rest of my life showing her how very much I respect and adore her.” Lord Barnsley flinched, and Hugh gave a slow, vicious smile.
“How does it feel to have your daughter loved by a monster?” He pressed even closer, wrinkling his nose at the stench.
“How does it feel to have your daughter loved by a duke?”
Lord Barnsley spat; Hugh moved back in time for the globule of saliva to land harmlessly on the bedclothes. “Love her, do you?” the man snarled. “Well, she’s not what you thought you were getting—the daughter of a viscount and of pure birth.”
Shock lanced through Hugh. His hands curled into fists. “What?”
“She isn’t mine,” Lord Barnsley said, his eyes alight with an almost feverish glow. “Her mother was a whore who lay with anyone who would open her legs. Christiana is the daughter of a stableboy.”
Hugh searched the man’s face, searching for a lie. But all he found was smug cruelty. Maybe it was truth; maybe it was a deception designed to wound.
It didn’t matter.
She was his wife. She could have been born in the stables, could have been born to a washerwoman and a miner. Could have been the bastard child of a good-for-nothing man who wanted nothing to do with his ill-begotten offspring.
She was his; he cared about nothing else.
And so he smiled. “Enjoy the remainder of your days, Lord Barnsley. I hope they are as miserable as your manners.”
Lord Barnsley’s smirk slipped. Evidently, he had been expecting a different reaction. Perhaps one of outrage, even anger that such a truth had been kept from him. Disbelief.
Hugh felt plenty of that. But not at the prospect of Christiana’s lowly birth. No, his anger came from the idea that her own father could use such a fact to cause pain. He was despicable.
Hugh paused by the door. “You know,” he said, as though in contemplation, “having now had the dubious honor of meeting you, I can safely say I might prefer it if her father were a stableboy.”
And with that, he left, not deigning to look back even once.